


Modo liceat vivere, est spes

by Bourneblack



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Also be warned, Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Depressed Phil Coulson, Depression, Happy Ending, Suicide Attempt, based on a kink meme prompt, but i wrote this trying to get out some of my thoughts, i don't know where this came from, there might be more, this deals with some heavy stuff, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 01:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bourneblack/pseuds/Bourneblack
Summary: SHIELD has a retirement system that's slightly different than usual. An agent can decide to retire, have all their memories of SHIELD removed, and be able to live life without the burdens of past missions upon them. Most take it well, but some have difficulty adjusting to their new life.After getting stabbed by Loki's spear, Phil Coulson retires, but he doesn't take to his new life very well.Clint Barton, who retired alone, notices a man in a suit standing on the roof ledge across the street.Based on a kink meme prompt I can't find.





	Modo liceat vivere, est spes

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This is some heavier stuff. Depression, suicide attempt. The ending, while happy, is open.
> 
> I wrote this on a six hour writing binge after work today.
> 
> Basically, SHIELD's retirement program is that after an agent retires, they can decide to do what everyone else does when they retire and just leave, or they can have their memories erased and be placed back with their families, to start a new life. This is popular with agents in the more stressful of jobs at SHIELD. Phil Coulson decides to do it. Clint also does it after he decides that he's ready to retire. 
> 
> I'd like to think that Coulson retired first, and Clint had no idea he was still alive, but retires second. SHIELD doesn't recognize Clint cuz he never turns towards the camera.
> 
> I have vague ideas for more, but I also have a whole nother story, so no promises.
> 
> Please, enjoy!

Contrary to popular belief, the United States Government is not allowed to spy on US citizens without just cause.

(Many agencies get around this, of course, but that’s neither here nor there.)

SHIELD’s contract with their retirees is very clear: they are US citizens, and their communications will not be monitored. The conversations they have with their appointed therapists are wrapped in patient-client privilege, their phone calls, emails, and conversations not recorded, stored, or listened too. An accidental monitoring of a US citizen will be reported immediately as an incident to Internal Affairs, and all content purged.

The exceptions are listed in the contract as well: once a week, the therapist will report, on a scale from ‘Extremely Good’ to ‘Extremely Poor’, the retiree’s progress in adapting to their new life. A retiree’s family will give a similar report, should the retiree have one. A year of majority ‘Extremely Goods’ and SHIELD drops all monitoring.

Another exception is that an agent of SHIELD can at any time intercept the retiree without giving away their SHIELD designation, briefly, and only in cases that the retiree becomes a danger to others around them, or their self.

The last exception: SHIELD can monitor any CCTV around the retiree’s location for up to a year after separation. To this day, Fury is not sure how they managed to get the okay from the government on that one.

It was a well and legal system, one that the few retirees who decided to take this route could trust to keep them safe. They could see their families again, or start new ones. Go be the firewoman they always wanted to be, or turn their hobby fixing cars into a career. They were happy, simple people, living happy, simple lives.

But sometimes, one or two slip through the cracks. They don’t always come back up.

 

 

 

Nick Fury, who’s good eye had retired after a stab to the heart, received an email every Tuesday, each with the two phrases.

The first report read ‘Very Good,’ and ‘Very Good,’ one from his family, and the other from his therapist

Next Tuesday was ‘Good,’ and ‘Neutral,’ one from his family, and the other from his therapist.

Then the next three Tuesday’s were only one phrase. They were, in order: ‘Neutral,’ ‘Poor,’ ‘Neutral.’ The family had lost contact with him.

The last six were all ‘Extremely Poor.’

Thursday, Nick Fury received a call while he was sipping on his second morning coffee.

“He’s on the roof, sir.”

 

 

Fury swooped into the room, where all fifty or so sets of eyes were trained on one of the many screens on the meeting room wall. Some were standing, some were sitting; they crowded around the table, jammed against one another, trying to get a good view. Most didn’t work in the retiree department, but got the same call he did, a call about a man on a roof.

(They weren’t supposed to tell people about the state of the retirees, they were supposed to keep monitoring quiet and contained. But Fury knows that nobody would report it to Internal Affairs.)

Usually the several TV screens in the room displayed different cities, CCTV cameras near the location of most of the retirees, but today all the screens showed one man, his suit and tie billowing in the wind, standing on the ledge of the roof of his high rise in Chicago.

Maria was next to him in an instant, face tight. “He’s been out there for about a minute.”

(CCTV has probably been trained on his rooftop instead of the ground for the past few weeks. There was another probably trained on his window, another on his front door. Technically they weren’t supposed to be selectively monitoring. Nobody would report that, either.)

“Where’s our nearest intercept.” Fury booms.

“20 minutes away.” Maria winces.

“And _why_ don’t we have people near him?” Fury says.

“There was something going on in southern Illinois, we needed all hands there.” Maria Hill sighs, staring at the man on the screen, who had shifted on the ledge, shuffling forward, toes peaking outwards over the tall, tall drop.

Maria was right, but Fury wasn’t going to be happy about it.

“Police?”

(They weren’t supposed to call the police.)

“On their way, but it’s rush hour.”

(Nobody would report that, either.)

They were hopeless but to watch as Phil Coulson looked to the sky and closed his eyes.

“He’s praying,” Maria says. The room was dead silent.

 

 

 

Phil finished his silent prayer, hoping it was enough to keep him out of hell. He’s a good man, he thinks, but suicide is a sin. He’s not religious either, which is another sin, but it’s a good time as any to reconnect with God.

He stretches his arms out wide and begins to lean ever so slightly.

“Hey.”

Phil’s eyes snap open and his freezes.

“It’s pretty cold up here.”

Phil turns his head slowly, hands falling to his side.

 

 

 

“Who is that?” Fury asks.

“It’s not one of our agents.” A voice responds from behind a computer screen. “He’s not facing the camera, we can’t get a read.”

The room shifts, still tight with fear, but now heavy with hope.

 

 

 

Behind Phil is a man in a T-shirt and jeans, barefoot, rubbing at his arms. Phil stares at him, wide eyed.

“Do you, um, want some hot chocolate?”

Phil blinks. “What?”

“I was making some, you know, ‘cause it’s cold, and I saw you out here and thought you might be cold too, so, yeah. Hot cocoa?”

Phil didn’t have time for this. He turns back forward.

“Hey, was it something I said?”

Phil sighs. “Whatever ‘it gets better speech’ you have prepared, just, leave it, okay.” Everyone’s tried. His parents, his therapist, that redheaded woman in the coffee shop. They all lied. It doesn’t.

“Thank God, I’m terrible at speeches.”

Phil actually snorts at that, more of an instinct than in humor.

“But, I’m a good listener?” Phil can hear that his voice is much closer to him now, and realizes belatedly that he’s been edging towards him. “And I make like, kickass hot chocolate. Plus, I have a dog, if you like that sort of thing, which of course you do. I mean if you don’t, then I get why you’re up here.”

Phil’s laugh is mostly shock now. “You’re not supposed to—you’re _terrible_ at this.”

“Am I?” The man grins, and suddenly he’s by Phil’s side. Phil looks down at him, about three feet lower, where he stands behind the ledge. Phil thinks he has a lovely, crooked smile. “Tell me more how I could be doing better.”

Whatever humor Phil felt before had faded. He turns away again.

“Hey, no, none of that. Is it my face? It’s totally my face.”

Phil scrubs his hands against his face and sighs, exasperated. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to listen.”

Phil snorts. “No you don’t.”

“Yes I do. I’m a lonely guy, and this is the third time I’ve watched The Office, and I’m going insane, and I totally need to hear another human being’s voice.”

“You’re full of shit.” Phil says, looking down at the man again.

“Yeah, so come with me so I can go to the bathroom, please?”

A strong gust of wind blows Phil’s tie up on to his shoulder. He gently pats it back down.

“You’re not funny.” Phil says.

“But what I am is a man with hot chocolate, and a dog, and like, thirty blankets.” The man grins up at him.

Phil says nothing.

“I’m Clint. What’s your name?”

Phil studies him. “Phil.”

“And what do you do Phil?”

“I’m an accountant.”

“Ew, where?”

“At Thomas and Sons.”

“Who?”

Phil quirks his mouth “It’s an accounting firm.”

“You’re an _accountant_ at an _accounting_ firm? Dear God man. No wonder you’re on a ledge.” Clint’s laughing at him.

Phil just shakes his head. “I doubt you’re supposed to say stuff like that to a man in my position.”

“Then what am I supposed to say?”

Phil grits his teeth, looking forward, to the grey building in front of him, no different than the one he’s standing on now.

“That it gets better. That all my problems are products of my own mind. That you just have to take your pills and talk about your feelings and it’s all going to be okay.” Phil says, bitterly.

“But you don’t believe that?”

Phil snorts. “No, because it _doesn’t._ It _hasn’t_. And everyone keeps telling me I should be happy. And I should be happy! I have good things, and I have a nice apartment and a solid job and a family, but…” Phil sighs, God he’s so selfish. “I don’t _do_ anything. I’m—” Phil breaks off. His eyes are tearing because he’s looking into the wind, that’s all.

“You’re…?” Clint asks, still looking at him, smile gone.

“I’m just another guy.” He says. Unimportant.

“Well, I mean, so am I.” Clint says.

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

“You’re the kind of guy that would walk onto a roof and try and talk someone down from killing themselves. You’re a good guy.” Phil’s not a good guy. He’s not a bad guy, either. He’s not much of anything.

“I’m not sure about that, I just wanted someone to drink hot chocolate with me, maybe laugh at some Office reruns. I’m selfish as hell.” Clint’s still looking at him. Phil crosses his arms, hoping it keeps his tie from flying up again. Clint continues. “I don’t care what anyone says, I like season 1.”

“Season 1 is garbage.” Phil startles himself into saying.

“Eh, I don’t know. Maybe you can convince me.”

The wind blows. Phil shifts his weight from one foot to the other, staring down at the street below. Someone’s noticed him.

Phil shakes his head. “I’m not interesting.”

“That can’t be true.”

“I’m _not._ ”

“Well, then, don’t talk. Just relax. Curl up in a blanket or six. Forget for a little while. Life is hard.”

“And you’re going to tell me it gets easier?”

“No, but sometimes we all need a break.” Clint pointedly looks down, then looks back up at Phil. “Down there you’re not going to find a break, Phil.”

“How else do you break from life? Every morning, every day, week, month, it’s all life. You can’t escape it unless you die.”

“Why’s that?”

“Stop trying to get me to talk.”

“It’s an honest question.”

“It’s just nature.” The words explode out of him with a force Phil hasn't felt in months. “There is life and then there is death. And my life is just going to work and going home and watching the news, and it’s all utter shit. We live on a planet that we are destroying, and people everywhere are mistreating others, and there is nothing that I can _do_ but sit here and save a billionaire millions of dollars on his tax return. What is he going to do with that? Buy another yacht?”

He’s yelling, screaming now, into the sky. “A yacht that would mean nothing to him, because he already has four? People are dying because they don’t have enough _food_ , and I’m doing nothing about any of it, I’m not making anyone’s life any better, so what’s the _point_?”

He shudders a breath, and he loses all of his steam, and has to take a small step back his legs shake. “I’m just another tool. I’m replaceable. I have given nothing to this world, and nothing I have done, or ever will do, will make a big enough difference. Everything is just too big, too far out of my hands.”

He’s so tired, God he’s just. _So. Damn. Tired._

“The world has existed long before me, and it will exist when I’m gone, so what’s the point of being here.”

A dog barks two streets down. On the sidewalk a crowd has formed, watching, wondering. Will he do it? Will he not? What has life done to him that it hasn’t done to me?

“Do you have a family, Phil?” Clint says. Phil sighs.

“A mom, a dad, two sisters.” He’s heard this before.

“Do you like your family?” Clint asks.

Phil shrugs. “They love me and care about me.”

“Do you love them?”

Phil doesn’t know what to say to that.

“You know they’ll miss you.”

“Yeah.” Phil says. “They’ll cry and then they’ll move on.”

Clint shakes his head. “If they love you and they care about you like you said, they’ll never move on.”

Phil says nothing.

“They’ll forever be missing their son.”

“Shut up.”

“Their brother.”

“I said _shut up_.”

“They’ll wonder what they did wron—”

“I said SHUT UP!” Phil shouts, and wobbles precariously. He feels a hand holding him steady against his hip, carefully.

The wind whistles. In the distance, sirens sound. The crowd below pulses.

Phil starts to sob. He puts his face in his hands and just cries, like a child.

Clint rubs circles into his thigh soothingly, but keeps it firm too, protecting him from the ground.

Phil can’t even kill himself right.

“I’m so pathetic.” Phil whispers.

“We all are. We just pretend we’re not.” Clint says.

Phil hiccups a laugh. “You’re so bad at this.”

“Am I?”

Phil doesn’t say anything.

“Come with me?”

Phil looks at Clint hesitantly, and he’s shocked to find Clint’s eyes are red. Clint wipes at one. “I’m not qualified for this, like at all. I don’t even have more the GED, hell, I was reading about QPR on the way up here.”

Phil doesn’t know what QPR is.

“And I totally thought I pushed you too far and I was afraid you were going to fall, and I just.” Clint sighs. “I get what it’s like to just need someone to listen, so come inside, and I’ll listen. _Please._ ”

Phil hesitates this time, and maybe Clint sees something in his face, because he holds out his hand. “Come on.”

Phil stares at it.

 

 

 

“Take his fucking hand Phil.” Melinda May whispers, but her voice carries over the room.

(They weren’t supposed to use his name.)

(You think anyone gives a shit?)

 

 

 

Phil sighs. “What’s one more day.”

He takes Clint’s hand, and Clint pulls him down from the ledge.

 

 

 

The room explodes with cheers. Several people, even perfect strangers, are joyously clapping, hugging, and patting each other on the back, all the people who loved and cared for Phil Coulson.

Agents he worked with, assets he managed, people’s lives he saved.

The lunch lady he said thank you to everyday when he got breakfast.

The security guard that stood outside Phil’s office on Wednesdays and Fridays, that always commented on Phil’s ties.

The woman at the SHIELD coffee shop who memorized Phil’s order, and complimented him every time he came down because she liked his blush.

Miracles are few and far between, nobody has all the answers, and Phil still has a ways to go.

But where there’s life, there’s hope. 

**Author's Note:**

> QPR: Question, Persuade, and Refer. 
> 
> There's no magic way to 'talk someone off a ledge.' the best thing you can do is QPR: question, persuade, and refer. They offer training online, that I certainly have not taken.
> 
> Clint's not a professional, he's just trying his best.
> 
> I am not a professional, either.
> 
> US suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255


End file.
